


Chupacabreunion

by bewildered



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-01-16 09:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12339927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewildered/pseuds/bewildered
Summary: The Sunnydale High School Class of 1999 Five Year Reunion will be held on Saturday, October 9, 2004, at the La Conquistadora Resort in Puerto Rico. All members of the Class of 1999 are welcome, alive, dead, or undead….Banner by the amazing swifthorse. Warnings for character death, smut.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait to post this until I had more in the bag, but decided the end notes needed not to wait. Thanks to Sigyn, myrabeth, and zabjade for betaing.

The stack of invitations disappeared in a _whoosh!_ of magic that sparkled and shimmered and smelled weirdly like barbecue sauce. Buffy blinked.

“That’s it?” she asked dubiously.

“That’s it,” Willow confirmed. “I told you it would be a piece of cake.” She wrinkled up her nose. “If, you know, cake smelled like a luau.”

Buffy sighed and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. “I just can’t help but think that this is a…”

“Don’t say it!” Willow admonished, getting to her feet and dusting her spell-dust mixture off her hands.

“I wasn’t going to jinx us,” Buffy grumbled.

“No, you were going to say something just a hair shy of an actual jinx, probably involving the words ‘bad’ and ‘idea,’ and then leave it to me to finish the jinx up by being morally obliged as your friend to deny the badness. We’re twenty-three now. I think it’s time we learn from our past mistakes.”

Buffy dropped the subject.

“Anyhow, I think with those tweaks from Althenea, I managed to get everyone who was there on graduation day.” She pulled a sour face. “Even the ones we’re hoping won’t come.”

“I feel you, Willow, but if we’re going to make this an official reunion, we can’t pick and choose just the people we like. We have to invite everybody.” Buffy sighed inwardly, thinking of the hours she’d spent stuffing envelopes. At least they hadn’t had to address them all; Willow had assured her that the magic-mail-merge-whatever would take care of all the names and stuff.

“I did,” Willow said grudgingly. “Even Harmony.”

“Good.” Buffy narrowed her eyes. “So why do you look guilty?”

Willow flushed. “I invited everybody. Everybody who was there at graduation fighting on our side.”

“Ev… Oh.” Buffy looked up at the ceiling. “You could have left him out. He wasn’t a student.”

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. The spell counts on broad strokes for its reach, so leaving him out would have been basically impossible. Anyhow, I just thought… Buffy, you haven’t been happy. Not for a long time.”

“What are you talking about? I was the original party girl in Rome, living it up every night.”

Willow raised her eyebrows silently.

“Okay, fine. I was miserable,” Buffy sighed. “Why did I ever promise that I was going to move out of the state of denial? It was so cozy there. Like Rhode Island.”

“I thought maybe it might be Angel-missage…?” Willow’s voice was uncertain.

“No.” Buffy had been thinking about this ever since their ragtag bus of refugees had sought shelter from the Los Angeles crowd the previous year. “It’s not… That’s not a thing anymore.”

When Angel had visited her in Sunnydale, back when there was a Sunnydale, she’d thought it might still be a thing; she’d kissed him (which they hadn’t done for years) and they’d talked (which truthfully they’d never done before, not in that mature actually-communicating way) and she’d sent him away with a parting message of vague hope, but then….

Then she’d chosen her champion.

When they’d rolled into Los Angeles, battered and bleeding, of course she’d gone to Angel to check in, and of course he’d helped them get patched up, and of course they’d worked together through the muddled chaos of getting everybody settled into rooms in his hotel base and getting pizzas delivered, and then when it had finally been just the two of them, they’d stood, and looked at each other, and had nothing to say.

Buffy had finally said a thing, because she had to.

“It burned him up.”

“Oh.” Angel hadn’t asked who or what.

“Did you know?”

“No! Of course not. I…” Angel had looked awkward then. “He burned?”

“Yeah.” And somehow that had been that. They’d exchanged more words over the course of their brief stay – business talk, the mission, the care of the refugees, even a bit about the weather – but it wasn’t really talking.

When they’d left L.A. a few days later, she hadn’t kissed him goodbye.

Willow was still looking at her sympathetically; Buffy barely managed not to roll her eyes. “Angel’s not  part of my life anymore. But I guess he can come if he wants. We can use all the help we can get.”

“True enough. But I am sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed….” Willow’s eyes drifted to the window, the still-bedraggled Puerto Rican scenery outside. “Think we’ll get any takers?”

“I know we will,” Buffy said stoutly. “I know we’ve all scattered to the four winds, but the Class of ’99… We’re solid, underneath where it matters. I bet almost everyone who comes will stay the whole week. After all, who doesn’t want to be a hero?”

*

Heroism could bugger off; Spike was bloody well done with the whole thing.

At night, he could pretend for a time. Go out, wander the streets, perhaps do a good bloody deed or two before winding up at one of the bars that stayed open as late as he wanted. It wasn’t until the sun was threatening to rise and he had to turn his steps towards the only home he had now that he had to face the truth.

He was the only one left.

Bloody Angel and his bloody heroics.

They’d won, he thought -- certainly the City of Angels hadn’t wound up overrun by demons, though that might have been interesting -- but as the battle had worn on, they’d dropped one by one, like they were figurines in a ruddy Agatha Christie play.

Wesley had been gone before the battle even truly began, and Lorne; one dead, the other simply broken and fled. He’d told Angel he would leave, the gentle singer, and Spike hoped he’d done it. Some souls weren’t meant to bear some burdens.

Gunn had at least shown up for the final showdown, reeking of blood and rot as only a gut wound could. He’d not even had the opportunity for the wound to fester; the first wave had cut him down, though not until he’d given a good accounting of himself.

Fred… Well, Fred was long gone before any of it. Blue was another matter entirely; she’d launched herself into the battle, muttering something wrathful, not giving Spike a second look.

Angel and Spike had fought on, side by side -- like the comrades Spike had believed them to be when he’d first become a vampire, before Angelus had taught him his place. Or tried to, at least; it seemed that the entire century-plus of their connection had been a cycle of Angel teaching and Spike refusing to be taught, until now, at the end of all things, they were somehow at last equal. Full circle, finally brothers in arms, back to back against the world.

So of course, Angel had fallen. Bloody spiteful bastard.

Spike wished he hadn’t seen it, that he could pretend he’d been looking the other way, but he had just turned to Angel to make some remark at his expense when it happened, a huge steel glaive cutting through the air and then through Angel’s neck, like butter, and as the dust of his grandsire washed into Spike’s wide-open mouth, ashes on his tongue, the demon wielding the glaive had barreled right into him with a snapping of bones, and Spike had tumbled down, down, distantly feeling his body hitting the pavement as his mind kept tumbling down into darkness, the shrieks of battle fading into nothingness.

“You are broken.”

Spike had opened his eyes to see Illyria gazing down at him, her Fred-not-Fred eyes wide and unblinking as a snake’s. He could barely look at her; the sun had come out and while he was deep in a shaded alley, dark as night, the street behind her was too bright for him to bear.

He’d looked at her anyhow and tried to answer, but something was wrong with his lungs; all he could manage was a wheeze that turned into a cough that was almost but not quite a laugh.

Blue didn’t blink. “I have no use for a broken pet.”

That sounded like the story of his whole bloody life, used and broken and tossed in the bin like so much rubbish; he’d laugh-coughed again, and finally managed to hack out a sentence.

“Did we win?”

She’d closed her eyes then, negligently, as if she were checking some internal file. “The Wolf and the Ram have been annihilated. The Hart has fled, but the wounds I inflicted shall take a millennium to heal, the upstart fool.” Her eyes opened, wide and satisfied. “Their armies have scattered like dust. I claim victory.”

That’d made Spike wince, the memory of dust, still on his lips, like a kiss goodbye. Hadn’t felt much like winning, the pain.

“I grow weary of this world,” Illyria had said, her voice oddly petulant. “I dislike the feel of it now. There is a void.”

At first, Spike’d thought the god meant him, the black hole of emptiness that was yawning inside him, but no, empathy wasn’t in Blue’s nature -- it had to be her own loss she spoke of. Another bubble of pained mirth stabbed his lungs at the irony of a bloody vampire judging any other being’s empathy levels, but even before his soul, he-

He’d been jolted from his vague musings when Illyria had hauled him up by the lapels of his battered duster -- new, it had been, a  paltry consolation prize for losing _her_ all over again, but now it had its own collection of scars and bruises to match Spike’s own -- her empty snake-eyes staring right into his, and _fuck_ it hurt, he’d been able to ignore the broken bones as long as he was lying still but dangling set all the snapped bits rubbing against each other and he nearly passed out again from the pain, but then Illyria’s head cocked to one side, predatory, and his survival instinct set the blackness aside for later.

“Too broken,” Illyria said dispassionately, and dropped him. Another rib snapped. “You may not accompany me.”

 _Never asked to_ , Spike would have retorted, if he weren’t gasping helplessly from reawakened agony.

By the time he’d recovered his voice, the blue god was gone.

Spike had managed somehow to drag himself to a dark corner behind a dumpster, where even at noon he would be safe from the sun. He’d huddled there miserably throughout the day, slipping between red dreams and excruciating wakefulness; by the time the sun had mercifully set, his bones had knitted well enough that he could stand.

Once he’d stood, though, he had to go somewhere, and after an agonizing eternity of indecision, he’d ended up stumbling down the block until he’d reached the one place of Angel’s he’d never actually been, not in any real sense.

The Hyperion Hotel.

It didn’t feel like home, but that itself felt oddly right. He didn’t want home, not a place he belonged. He needed a place where he was out of place, where the constant reminders of the _belonging_ he had lost would be muted. At the Hyperion, he was a stranger, though it still smelled faintly of Angel and his bloody Angelettes. Angel’s scent was stronger, as if he’d been there recently. The power was on.

There was blood in the freezer, though the fridge was empty.

When Spike took his first sip of the defrosted blood, he’d laughed, and cursed, and finally wept, because it was bloody _otter_ , that exotic flavour tainted by bitter freezer burn and microwave aftertaste, of course bloody Angel would have bloody _otter_ in his emergency stash, and that had sent Spike hunting for Angel’s other emergency stash, the posh whiskey down in the cellar storage, and he hadn’t come out from that for a good week.

Now… He’d settled into it, the being alone; he’d gone back to his basement apartment at one point, but it had felt cold and empty and wrong -- he thought he understood Drusilla’s obsession with ashes, now --  and in the end he’d just gathered up the few things he still had a use for and tied them up in a bundle to haul back to the comfortingly-not-his hotel, where he’d found a room that suited him on the second floor. It had a crack on the ceiling in an intriguing shape -- sometimes it looked like Angel, sometimes like Dru, sometimes like Paraguay (of which he had many fond memories).

It never looked like _her_. That was somehow comforting as well.

Over the months of his stay he’d grown familiar with the features of the place, the strata of the dust on the things he didn’t use, the tracks left in the dust by the things he did use, and so he noticed immediately when something was different.

One morning, he had mail.

He returned from another night of patrol-drinking-not-thinking to find them neatly fanned out across the hotels’ dusty counter, three identical white envelopes, the heavy kind that always bore important news. Weddings and funerals. The dust itself was completely undisturbed on both counter and floor, as if they’d appeared out of nowhere.

“Because they did bloody appear out of nowhere, you git,” Spike told himself disgustedly. (The first few weeks he’d just thought his thoughts to himself as usual, but after a while he’d started talking back to the telly, and then talking back to himself, and now he had progressed to having full conversations with good old Spike. At least he was guaranteed an intelligent debate.)

“Magic, then. Not to be trusted,” he cautioned himself. Still, the envelopes didn’t give off any particular aura of doom. He approached them trepidatiously.

Closer, he could see that they were almost completely blank -- no return address, no stamps, no bloody bar codes from the bloody newfangled sorting machine -- each with a name written precisely in the center in vaguely-familiar loopy handwriting that glowed a faint blue. One read _Ms. Cordelia Chase_. Another, _Mr. Wesley Wyndam-Price_.

The third said simply _Angel_.

Spike’s hand was already halfway to picking up granddad’s dead letter when the significance of the three names struck him. Cordelia. Wesley. Angel. They had one thing in common, one thing nobody else from Angel Investigations shared. Sunnydale.

 _Fuck._ He wasn’t opening that envelope -- that hand-addressed, magic-delivered, formal-announcement-type envelope -- without some fortification.

A tumbler of Angel’s priciest whiskey later, he paced back and forth in front of the three ominous envelopes.

“Do it,” he said encouragingly. “Nothing it could be but bad news, yeah? Go sack of hammers wondering. Just do it. Like ripping off a bloody plaster.”

And finally he did, the sound of tearing paper echoing softly off the dust. Spike shook the card out into his hand as gingerly as if it were a cobra.

His first impression was _black_ and he felt instantly sick, searching wildly for the name of the deceased, but then the number _1999_ popped out at him and he staggered to the nearest chair in confused relief, waving away the cloud of dust that poofed up from the upholstery when he fell into it.

“Got to hire a bloody maid service,” he muttered absently, reading the card from the beginning. Then he read it again, brow furrowing. And then he read it again, aloud, because for some reason the reality of the card was defying his expectations.

_"The Sunnydale High School Class of 1999 Five Year Reunion will be held on Saturday, October 9, 2004, at the La Conquistadora Resort in Puerto Rico. Dinner begins at 6:00 pm."_

He heaved a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. Funny, he'd thought he was numb all the way through, but turned out there was a little feeling left, just there under his spleen, a little coal of sensation that had gone cold and then hot, leaving behind a faint tinge of nausea.

"Bloody modern etiquette standards," he grumbled in disgusted relief as he read further. "Supposed to save the posh stationery for the grander events. Endings and beginnings."

_Five years ago, the Sunnydale High School Class of 1999 took up arms to save Sunnydale from the mayor. Together, we saved the world._

There went his spleen again; should have that bugger removed. Or do it himself. He had enough broken bottles around to handle the deed.

"Together, we saved the world," he repeated, injecting as much irony into the words as he could. As if that could protect him from what was to come.

_Today, we are asking you to lend us that same strength and determination to help the people of Puerto Rico. On September 15th, Hurricane Jeanne swept across this tiny island, devastating crops and destroying homes and livelihoods. We now invite you not only to celebrate the past five years with us, but also to take up shovels and hammers, hoes and rakes, and aid in the recovery from this deadly natural disaster._

"Hence bloody Puerto Rico," Spike commented. Who was _we_? It had to be _her_ , the way this was going, but... no bloody guarantee. Sodding Xander might be carrying the torch, last survivor there as Spike was here. Still... it sounded like her.

It was her. It had to be.

_We know this will not be possible for all of you, but if you are able to commit to staying in Puerto Rico for at least one week following the reunion to assist with reconstruction, your airfare and accommodations will be provided free of charge. Please present this card at any major airline counter at any international airport to arrange transportation and provide the hotel with offer code “Razorbacks5” when making your reservation. Subject to  verification._

"Got some bloody funding at last," he muttered. "No more flipping burgers for you. Good girl."

_All members of the Class of 1999 are welcome, alive, dead, or undead. However, please be aware that the following activities are prohibited for the duration of your stay in Puerto Rico: Curses, hexes, multi-level marketing, necromancy, murder, the distribution of printed or recorded materials of any kind, reanimation of the dead, insurance sales, non-consensual torture, feeding any animals on hotel grounds (including birds), and the consumption of human blood._

Spike could only applaud this list.

_If you have special dietary needs or other necessary accommodations, please describe your need in the “comments” box of the online RSVP form._

_We’ll see you in a few weeks!_

"Not much time you give us," Spike groused. "How's a fellow supposed to get a decent tuxedo in less than a month?" He paused. "Not that I'm invited." Where had he been in May of 1999? Brazil? Not saving the world, that was for bloody sure. That had come later.

The wording of the invitation was as good as proof -- had a thing for inspirational speeches, she did --  but he lifted the invitation to his nose and tested the scent, just to be sure. There was the magic, sweet and tangy, and the earthy herby scent than meant Willow, but… yes, there, just the tiniest hint of her, under it all. Buffy.

The wave of yearning that welled up inside Spike was entirely expected; he’d braced himself against it, and it still threatened to wash him away. That was his girl, all right, still saving the world one piece at a time, and dancing every moment she could. She probably already had a dress picked out for dancing with her immortal honey, something saucy. Maybe red.

God, he wished he could see it. Her.

He poured himself another tumbler of booze -- not a finger, a whole fist worth -- and tossed the card in the bin.

When he’d finished his drink a few minutes, or perhaps hours, later, he retrieved the card and held it under his nose again, eyes drifting across the empty, dusty lobby of the hotel.

Would she wear red? Or maybe white? She looked glorious in blue as well. That blue denim jacket…. She was always glorious, his girl. Even covered in mud.

God, he hoped she’d wear red.

*

Buffy was covered in mud.

It was good mud, she supposed. Virtuous, even. It had taken hours of shoveling, trundling wheelbarrows, and general heavy lifting, but she and her small crew of slayers had managed to clear another residence of the bulk of the mud dumped on it by the hurricane. Tomorrow the light-duty cleanup crew would move in and start the finer work, getting the residence scrubbed down and dried out and ready for the residents to return. Another family safe.

Still, she kind of hated mud. This shirt had been red, once.

Back at the Jeep they were using for transport, Vi looked just as tired and bedraggled as Buffy felt.

“Do we have to move the whole mountain?” she said, shoving her once-colorful beanie back from her forehead. Buffy was _so_ taking her whole crew shopping on the Watcher’s Council’s dime once this gig was done; everything they had brought to Puerto Rico was now just varying shades of dirty.

“Just the part that fell off,” Buffy laughed back wearily. “So, you know. Seventy-five percent.”

Vi settled in beside Buffy, glaring at her dirty hands. “Is this even going to come off by Saturday?” she fretted.

“You’ll have all day to clean up,” Buffy promised as they jolted along the road -- it was navigable but needed some serious pothole work. “Local government’s scheduled some heavy equipment for Saturday; even if we wanted to get muddy, we’d just be in the way.” Her eyes drifted across the empty fields and paddocks as they passed them; the livestock that had dotted the fields when they’d arrived in Puerto Rico, before all the destruction, had since been moved to safer pastures, which was of course best for them but made the farms seem even more abandoned than they were. Like they were driving through a huge ghost town.

“And it’s okay that we come?” Vi said nervously. “We didn’t graduate from Sunnydale. I don’t think Irina even finished high school at all.”

“Of course it is!” Buffy took up Vi’s dirty hand in her own, rubbing reassuringly at the dirt. “Look, you know the whole reason we’re even doing this is so that we can get more helpers out here, and give the local economy a boost. The more people we have at this shindig, the more money the local businesses have coming in for their own personal recovery. The Watcher’s Council has a lot of money.” She felt her smile grow a little forced at the memory of just how much they’d turned out to have, none of which had apparently been earmarked for the support of the girl actually doing their dirty work -- but that was neither here nor there. Now -- well she was still getting dirty, but at least she was also getting _paid._ As were all the slayers under her command. “So when we use our expense account to support the locals, paying for the catering and the rooms, getting dresses from the local boutiques… we’re doing good work. And you’re helping to rebuild, and have been for weeks, when all you thought you were signing up for was a two-week research gig in the Caribbean. You didn’t know it was going to be Mudapalooza. Ergo, you get to come to our one party night. It’s like you and the other slayers are my plus-ones. Plus-eights. You know what I mean.”

Vi quirked a grin at that. “Oh, I see how it is. Just because you couldn’t get someone to come dance with you…”

_You think we’re dancing?_

_That’s all we’ve ever done._

“It’s not like it’s Homecoming,” Buffy said lightly. “It’s not about couples or romance, it’s just about… you know, hanging out. With old friends. Reunifying.”

“Which is why we have a DJ?”

Buffy shrugged. “I had to give Andrew something to do. Cutting together the perfect 1999 dance mix has kept him out of my hair.”

“Right.” They both fell silent, looking out at the darkening landscape.

“Anyhow,” Buffy said at last. “We’ve been working our tails off for almost a month now. Don’t we deserve one night off?”

*

Behind them, its lair buried under a few tons of mud, _el chupacabras_ disagreed. Fortunately for Buffy, it did have those tons of mud to contend with, keeping it from laying down a fierce counter-argument.

Unfortunately for Buffy, Tomas was bringing out his backhoe in the morning.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Zabjade, Sigyn, and bestest writing partner the_moonmoth for pre/betareading various and sundry bits of this chapter. Any remaining errors of language or judgment are mine. Thanks also to the_moonmoth for a retroactive beta of Chapter 1; it has been edited slightly, so please redownload if you have saved it.

Buffy stepped out into the early morning, blinking slightly at the sight of the sun coming up over the ocean. Funny how sunrise didn’t feel the same, viewing it after a full night’s sleep instead of a night of patrol. Even with her sleep as iffy as it had been lately. It didn’t feel quite right, like the world had tilted on its axis, sending her careening into a demon dimension. The dimension of nothing but mud. Anya -- she suppressed a sigh -- would probably have told her it existed somewhere. _Of course it exists_ , she grumbled to herself. _It’s called Buffy’s life._ Her whole past seemed like a muddy primordial soup of regrettable life choices, and it felt like all she had to look forward to was more mud, literal and metaphorical. Even the whole reunion thing, which was supposed to be fun, was getting muddier and muddier in her brain, just thinking about who might come and what baggage they might bring.

Buffy shook herself out of that line of thought and waved briskly at the driver waiting to take her and the rest of the morning crew out to today's worksite, jogging slightly as she rounded the building, heading into the pool area.

The poolside cabana had fortunately been sheltered from the worst of the hurricane's depredations, and workers were already busy setting up tables and chairs for the evening's festivities. Buffy had made sure everyone knew that the bar was open to anyone who was around working the reconstruction; she wasn’t sure the locals would _want_ to stop in, but she had made it clear that nobody was being excluded. The only private affair was the reunion dinner, and even then, she’d made arrangements for the rest of the reconstruction workers to have a meal on the Council. _It’s good to be the Queen… with an expense account,_ she thought with satisfaction.

Giles was seated at the unattended bar, a cup of tea in front of him, frowning at his cell phone in vague annoyance.

She sidled up to him. "Newfangled devices getting you down?"

Giles glanced up wryly. "No, er, I do believe I've finally mastered the more basic functions. No, it's Wesley. Wesley Wyndam-Price. I'm sure you recall him."

"Hard to forget that whimper of pain." Buffy frowned thoughtfully. "Though he seemed to have stoiced-up a bit when we saw him after Sunnydale. Anyhow, what's the sitch?"

"Well, I was advised that his ticket voucher had been used, and that flight was due to arrive early this morning, but I haven't had a call or message from him to advise me of his arrival. I had hoped he might be willing to meet with me, perhaps provide me an update on the happenings in Los Angeles over lunch."

Buffy was _so_ not touching the subject of Los Angeles. Administrivia was much safer. “We’re tracking the vouchers?”

Giles shrugged. “Some of the, er, more seasoned remnants of the Watcher’s Council insisted there be some sort of accountability. Roger – that would be his father, Roger Wyndam-Price – asked me to look his son’s voucher up in the database.”

Buffy raised her eyebrows. “You used the database?”

Giles sighed. “I had Andrew do it, of course. He does have his uses.”

Buffy tangled her hands together on the bar’s scarred, formerly-polished surface. “Did you happen to notice anyone else who checked in?” God, the whole subject of Los Angeles was more than mud. It was like quicksand, sucking her in the more she struggled to escape.

Giles grimaced. “Unfortunately, no. I believe there is a printed list somewhere back in England, but Roger, fearing graft of some sort, has asked that we take our own, separate list of those who meet the labor requirements. He’s hoping to weed out some noncompliants he can crack down on.”

“…He _is_ aware that we’re spending the Council’s expense account like floodwater in a hurricane, isn’t he?”

“Oh, yes. He’s well aware. But I do like to give him the occasional illusion of control. Keeps him from looking too closely at everything else that’s been changing in the organization. Such as the increased payroll.”

Buffy sank onto the stool next to Giles, suddenly feeling exhausted. “We sent an invitation to Cordelia, but I doubt she’ll be here. I mean, they’d have told us, right? If anything had changed, if she’d come out of her coma….” She’d visited Cordelia in the hospital before she left L.A., and it had been weird, seeing Cordy’s mobile, expressive face all still and slack, her biting tongue silent. One more casualty of their war. “Wesley would have said something.”

“One would think so. But I fear I haven’t heard from Wesley personally of late. Or anyone in Los Angeles, in fact, not since that bizarre phone call from Angel.”

Buffy sighed, bowing to the inevitable. “Yeah, what was up with that? I read your report but it was kinda….”

“Incomprehensible?”

“I was gonna go with ‘wack’ but that works too.”

“It was most definitely, er, wack. He began by demanding to know where Willow was – most rudely, I might add. This was, of course, when Willow was in Bhutan dealing with that bloodwraith incursion, so naturally I advised him that she was unavailable.”

“Ooh, yeah. That was the one where we had to put her on an IV, right?” Buffy had spent half that time by Willow’s bedside, wishing there was something she could punch. She hated hospitals.

“I offered to inquire about an alternative solution, of course, but he refused to allow me to place him on hold to check my resources, and then when I tried to ascertain the nature of his emergency, he grew quite irate and unpleasant, particularly when I asked if he was still affiliated with Wolfram and Hart.  Then he abruptly disconnected. All my attempts to return his call went directly to voicemail. Really, I’m not certain what to conclude.”

“You and me both,” Buffy sighed. “Willow said Fred hasn’t been replying to her emails, either. I guess they send each other pictures of cats? With silly captions. Something about… Caturday?”

Giles closed his eyes, face pained. “May god have mercy on us all.”

“She’s worried.” Buffy turned to face Giles. “ _I’m_ worried. There was all that ruckus in the coven in May, about the baby and the prophecy and the apocalypse, and then it all just… fizzled.”

Giles nodded sagely. “Rather unusual, but one can hardly complain. It’s not as if there isn’t always another disaster waiting in the wings. Rather pleasant to have something fade away without our efforts.”

Buffy stretched, glancing at the clock behind the bar. Almost time, thank god. "I hear you there. Anyhow, can you keep an eye on stuff here? I really want things to be perfect for tonight."

Giles glanced at her sidelong. "Isn't the reunion _tomorrow_ evening?"

"Yes, but tonight's the pre-party. Nothing fancy, just drinks by the pool for people whose flights arrived early enough, and the reconstruction crew, like always."

"Ah. Is there also to be a, er, post-party?"

"Not so much with the post-partying, but there will be an awful lot of post-cleanup. With extra bonus mud!" Buffy shrugged. “There may be some minor partying.”

Giles sighed, and she felt a sudden rush of sympathy. Poor guy, having to be chaperone and guide to dozens of teen girls now, instead of just one. No wonder he was bellying up to the bar before it was even open.

A honk came from the front of the building. "Whoops. Cinderella's chariot awaits. Off to clean out a few more fireplaces before the ball." She scooped up her hair and scrunchied it into a rough ponytail. "Though I guess there aren't so many cinders out there. Does that make me Mudarella?"

Giles turned to face her, smiling slightly. "I don't say this often enough, but I'm so very proud of you. It's not a very pleasant job, all this cleanup and recovery, but you've really put your best foot forward."

Buffy glanced down briefly, embarrassed. "Well, if the work boot fits...." She flashed a grin. "Thanks, Giles. See you tonight."

Giles nodded in acknowledgment and returned to his tea as Buffy dashed off around the building. The Jeep was packed with slayers ready to work; she squished into the last available seat and nodded at the driver. They took off, jolting along the uneven road; Buffy turned her face to the east, closing her eyes and letting the flashes of morning sun through ragged palm trees flow across her face. It felt like the sunlight was cleansing her, wiping all the mud and confusion away, replacing it with bright purpose. She took in a deep breath.

It was a perfect day.

***

Tomas was also thinking what a perfect day it was when he released the chupacabra.

He had been fortunate; his own house had been far enough inland that it had merely suffered a bit of wind damage and a few broken windows, and to compound his good fortune he was possessed of skills in high demand for the reconstruction, leaving him in a better position than many of his neighbors. He was not a foolish man either, and so he refrained from bragging about his good fortune, striving to maintain a humble demeanor and sharing what he had with his fellow Puerto Ricans and putting his skills to good use in repairing the damage wrought by the hurricane.

Tomas was a good man.

He had no idea what his backhoe was unearthing.

***

_hunger hunger hunger_

_the pack roiled in the darkness snapping futilely at each other disquieted by the rumblings above shallower and somehow harsher than the deep rumblings of earth that had awakened them from their slumber in their mountain lair_

_they had slept and they had awakened and now there was only the hunger and the darkness._

_light flash mad scramble writhing and wrestling until one swifter and stronger than the others managed to wriggle free scrambling out into the sunshine as the mud shifted and sank burying its fellows yet again_

_hunger and light and hunger now blinking its night-blind eyes at the bright landscape wide nostrils flaring spines bristling as it tested the air and there it was the blood there there there el chupacabras turned and lunged_

_cowering in fear at the beast before it yellow and growling and strong the blood was there hiding inside but ah el chupacabras was frightened and it turned and fled loping off into the fields the fields the fields that should be teeming with goats and sheep and goats and cattle and goats and yet the fields were empty no blood it hungered so for blood and the blood was gone where had all the blood gone and it ran and ran_

_it would find the blood_

_it would find it and drink deep_

_it ran_

***

Buffy neatly arranged a selection of markers next to the artistically fanned name tags and badge holders, critically eyeing the result.

"I think you need to start over," Willow observed drily. "The marker on the left seems to be at a thirty-one degree angle, and we all know that thirty-one degrees is the Angle of Doom."

Buffy laughed sheepishly. "Is that your way of telling me I'm fussing too much?"

"Maybe a little." Willow tugged at the pleated top of the table skirt. "It's not like the weekend's going to be ruined by a less-than optimal Sharpie configuration. Not getting any complaints from the people who've already arrived, either."

Buffy started to pace in front of the table, anxiety bubbling up inside her. "Are you sure I look okay? I was worried I didn't get all the mud out of my hair."

"You look great," Willow reassured. "Any exes that decide to show up are going to curse the day they let you get away." She flushed slightly. "Well, maybe not curse.... You know what I mean."

"I do," Buffy smiled. "It's one of the grand traditions of the high school reunion, I hear -- the ritual eating-your-heart-out."

There was a disgusted sigh from behind them. "Oh, I see how it is. We undead-alumni aren't allowed to drink human blood while we're here, but you can eat all the hearts you want, just because you're the slayer. That's totally discrimination."

Buffy turned, baring her teeth in a smile. "Harmony. So glad you could make it."

"We weren't talking about real hearts," Willow pointed out. "They were metaphorical."

Harmony sniffed. "Whatever. But just for the record, I’m not bowing down to your unreasonable demands. I’ve been off the human blood all on my own for, like, a year now. It’s just so _déclassé_.” She folded her arms. “Do I have to sign a contract in my own blood or something?”

“Ew,” Buffy said pointedly. “No, just use the pen. And there’s no contract. We…” She grimaced and made herself say it. “We are willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Harmony smiled then, almost a real smile. “Gee, thanks,” she trilled, in a way that made Buffy want to take back the benefit of the doubt and give in to paranoia.

Harmony stood back up from the sign-in sheet on the clipboard. “Is that it?” She looked around. “Not a lot going on for a fancy resort. I was expecting, I don’t know, oiled up cabana boys with palm fronds or something.”

“Everybody’s out by the pool,” Buffy said shortly. “Just write your name on a name tag, so everyone knows who you are.”

“Like that’s a problem,” Harmony said smugly, adjusting her cleavage. “Everybody’s going to recognize me. I haven’t changed a bit. I’m just as perky as I was five years ago.” She slid a sidelong glance at Buffy. “Unlike some people, who might as well have spent the last _ten_ years working in a coal mine.”

Buffy bared her teeth again. God, grownup social responsibility sucked. “You still need a name tag.”

Harmony shrugged and bent down to the table, choosing a magenta Sharpie and writing _Harmony_ in bubbly cursive. “I don’t use my last name any more,” she said conversationally. “I mean, why bother? It’s not like there’s any other vamps named Harmony. Not any that matter, anyhow. And it seems to be the thing to do.” She fiddled for a bit with the name badge, finally getting the card tucked inside its vinyl sleeve.

Buffy opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. What was Spike’s last name? Or Angel’s, for that matter? Drusilla’s? Darla’s? They did seem to all be going the Madonna route. She could only think of a few who’d kept any sort of family association after turning, and that was generally because their family had also been turned, like the Gorch brothers.

“I wasn’t going to come,” Harmony continued smugly as she pinned her nametag to her pink cocktail dress. “But then I realized, what’s the point of always staying young and perfect if you don’t get to flaunt it?” She patted the badge with satisfaction. “I am really looking forward to our thirty-year, you know?”

“Just make sure to keep your nametag on at all times,” Buffy said sweetly. “There’s about twenty more vampire slayers here this weekend besides me, and while they’re going to do their best not to stake any guests, any vampires _not_ wearing a nametag are open season for slayage.”

Harmony flinched, then smiled stiffly. “You’re still so funny, Buffy. I’m sure I’ll be laughing at you all weekend.” She leaned in and ostentatiously kiss-kissed the air on either side of Buffy’s face, sending her instincts screaming. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with a lounge chair and a Mojito.”

“Open Bar starts at six.” Buffy sidled up to Willow as they both watched Harmony teeter off down the hall on what looked like very expensive stilettos. “Whose idea was it to invite _everybody_ to the reunion, again?”

“That would be yours.”

“Right. You did get all the badges enspelled, right? With the human-blood-detector-charm-thingie?”

“You know I did. She or any other vamps decide to chow down, we’ll know about it.” Willow brightened. “Oh, but you know what this means? The postage-spell worked!”

“Well, we knew it _worked_ , we’ve had a half dozen people show up….”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Yes, but all the people that showed up so far we’d had some contact with before we sent out the invites. Like, we knew Percy had gone to UCLA, and that Maria was in San Francisco… But we had no idea what Harmony had been up to since leaving Sunnydale. And she got her invitation!” She bounced a bit on her toes. “It really worked!”

“Says the girl who imbued a whole generation of girls with slayer powers.”

Willow looked down. “It’s… it’s not about the power anymore, you know. I used to be… but then I was… I’ve been learning, you know? About control, and mindfulness, and… I’ve been learning.” She picked at the table skirt again. “Tara used to tell me, about the natural order? And humility, and all sorts of stuff, and I always thought I knew better, because I had all that power. And even before that, when… when Oz used to get worried, I used to brush it off and get annoyed, like he didn’t think I could do it, except now I know it wasn’t because he didn’t think I could do it, it was because he knew I could, and he also knew… knew what it was like, to be taken over by something, so Oz, he….”

“Uh-oh. Someone taking my name in vain?”

The look on Willow’s face -- incredulous, shyly pleased, and more than a little terrified -- suddenly made all Buffy’s work stuffing envelopes, planning decorations, and setting up alternate menus for “undead-alumni,” Atkins-dieters, and vegans all worth her while.

Willow did a terrible job of hiding her mix of emotions as she turned to greet the latest arrival. “I thought we had an appointment to meet in Morocco,” she said unevenly.

“Morocco, Puerto Rico….” Oz shrugged. “They both end in _co_.”

He had stopped a few feet away, and was looking at them both steadily -- oh, who was Buffy fooling? He was looking at Willow. She herself might as well have been chopped liver. Or, well, not chopped liver, because three days out of the month Oz was totally into chopped liver. Chopped spinach? Not the most desirable dish in the smörgåsbord, was the point. Whereas Willow was apparently like a dish of Ikea Swedish meatballs, without the weird berry sauce stuff.

The moment passed, though, and as Willow’s smile shifted into awkwardness and Oz’s eyes slid away to rest on the table, Buffy turned on her Socially Responsible Grownup face again, and stepped forward to give Oz a hug. His hair was what she thought might be his natural color, kind of reddish, and he was wearing it longer than he used to.

“So good to see you,” she said, meaning it.

“Likewise.” Oz hugged her briskly.

“Glad you could make it,” Willow said, suddenly oddly formal, stepping forward for her turn; their hug was just a bit stiff, like they were aliens who’d learned how to hug from watching TV.

Oz didn’t reply. Buffy could see his eyes were closed.

***

Rupert Giles was afraid to open his eyes.

He had long ago come to terms with the fact that he was not, technically, a good man. He had done things he now regretted, believing himself to be in the right, and he considered himself fortunate to have since gained some forgiveness for his sins. He had done other things he did _not_ regret, in the interest of saving the world, and accepted that the blood on his hands was a small price to pay for a hellgod’s demise, a world saved. He had gazed upon some of the deepest horrors the world had to offer, stood unflinching before the sins of his past, and even chaperoned a bloody Prom  -- albeit occasionally with his glasses mercifully removed. And yet, there were some things that, once seen, could not be unseen. He felt he could not be blamed for delaying the sight just a few moments longer.

A man could only bear so much.

“What do you think, Mr. Giles? More flamingoes?”

Without opening his eyes yet, Giles sighed. “I am quite certain, Andrew, that there is nothing in the world that could be improved by the addition of flamingoes.”

There was a slight pause. “Flamingoes are an elegant bird, worshipped by the _Moche_ people of ancient Peru.”

Bugger, Giles could practically _hear_ Andrew pouting. “Indeed,” he said forbiddingly.

“And they’re… they’re the national bird of the Bahamas.”

Giles massaged his temples. “Regardless, I feel quite secure in stating that the flamingoes so highly honoured were not constructed of cheap pink plastic.”

Another pause. “You know, postmodern aesthetics accept the value of kitsch in fine art. It’s ironic.”

Dear god, was the bar open yet?

There was a sullen rustling, and then Andrew sighed. "All right, Mr. Giles. I put the flamingoes away. You can open your eyes."

The sight that greeted him when he did so was still tacky in the extreme, but at least it was primarily a soothing green. Giles sighed in relief. Perhaps the boy could be taught after all.

When the dust of Sunnydale had finally settled, and he and his charges had recovered from their various injuries -- the physical ones, at least -- Giles had found himself in an unusual and unenviable position: shepherding a troupe of half-trained slayers, in a world filled with _un_ trained slayers suddenly imbued with unexpected strength and ability -- and a complete power vacuum at the top of the Watchers Council.

Buffy had come to him when he was packing to leave the Hyperion. Not that there had been much to pack, just the few things he'd purchased in LA to supplement the worn outfit he'd been wearing when they’d fled Sunnydale, to tide him over until he could buy proper clothes at Marks and Spencer. (Since there wasn't a bloody place in the whole of California that sold decent socks.)

"You have to take charge," she'd said, folding her arms and leaning against the door frame.

"Of the Potentials?" he'd replied, frowning at his half-empty suitcase.

"Of the Council."

He'd turned and looked at her, taking in her serious mien, the tension in the lines of her shoulders. "Are you sure I can be trusted with the responsibility?" he'd said sharply, still feeling a twinge of bitterness at the wall that had sprung up between them. The wall he'd built himself, he amended inwardly, one brick of betrayal at a time.

"Better you than them. Any of them." She'd come into the room then, just a few feet, sinking gingerly into the beleaguered desk chair he'd appropriated. "It's not that I'm not still.... It still hurts, okay? That you didn't trust me. That you went behind my back. But I'm trying to understand." She looked down then, frowning, and continued in a careful, gentle tone of voice. "And I do think that... that even when you thought I was going crazycakes, or that I was sailing down the river to Bad Decisionland, that you still... you still loved me, you know? You were trying to do what you thought was best."

Giles had turned away, walking to his empty bureau as if it still held something in need of packing, so that she couldn't see the tears that had sprung up in his eyes.

“I haven’t forgiven you yet,” she’d said abruptly. “I’m going to need some time for that. I need to… come to grips with what we lost. And we’re not going to be the same. Not ever.”

“Right,” Giles had said, feeling suddenly weighed down.

“It’s not like I haven’t forgiven worse. Willow, and Faith, and Sp- and even Xander -- nobody has clean hands here.” She paused. “And me. I’ve been forgiven, too. Even when I’m not sure I deserved it.”

“Buffy….”

“It just feels worse when it’s personal,” Buffy rushed on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Like, I know in the grand scheme of things ‘not believing in me’ isn’t nearly as bad as ‘murdering innocent people’ and ‘trying to destroy the world’ but it feels worse because it’s so close. You know?”

He’d had difficulty speaking past the lump in his throat. “I do.”

“But how I feel, it’s not what’s important right now.” She clasped her elbows, face grim. "The thing is, we did what we had to do to save the world. The First had to be stopped, the Hellmouth had to be closed, and even now that I've had time to think about it... I can't think of any other way we could have done it. I saw it all, Giles. Everything the First had planned. I know what we did was the right choice, the only choice." She looked up at him, hands clasped between her knees, looking both painfully young and unbearably old. "But what we did, awakening all the potentials -- that's going to have consequences. Big ones. I remember what it was like when I was called, how scared and confused I was, and I... I just did that to hundreds, maybe thousands of girls across the world."

Giles cleared his throat. "Our best estimates.... Yes, thousands."

"There were a few minutes there, right after Sp-- right after Sunnydale collapsed, when I thought I was free. That I'd managed to pass on the job, and now I could, I don't know, go start up a llama farm or something. Something peaceful and normal. But that's not fair." She stood then, folding her arms, defiant. "Activating the Slayer line makes me responsible for them. All of them. Giles, we need to find them, and help them, and... and we need to figure out what else the spell did, all the ripple effects. Because you know it's not as simple as, 'Hey, now you're super-strong. Have fun!' They don't know why they're suddenly so strong. And now, they're targets."

Giles stopped pretending to pack and sat down on his bed. "And very few of them have watchers."

"Giles, I'm real good at the sticking of pointy sticks in baddies, and pretty much the world expert on stopping apocalypses, but that's all out in the field. I'm not really cut out for the office stuff. I mean, I barely know how to Google."

Giles could not honestly argue with that. "I'm not the only surviving member of the Council. I've heard from any number of my colleagues who were not present when--"

"I don't want any of them in charge," Buffy interrupted. "It has to be you." She walked over in front of him then, arms dropping heavily to her side. "Please, Giles. I need you to… to make it so I can trust you again. I really, really want that back."

And looking into the eyes of the girl who had lived and died to save the world, who'd had her well-earned rest snatched away, who had grown into a woman as he watched... Giles could not say no.

Though if he'd realized at the time that his responsibilities would also entail shepherding a certain morally-challenged flamingo-loving youth along the path of righteousness, he might have fought a little bit harder. But Buffy had insisted that his own youthful indiscretions made him the perfect man for the job, and he had to admit that Andrew had been very helpful when it came to the computers that were apparently now necessary to function as an adult. It was humiliating that Giles knew at least three dead languages, and yet could not remember when one was required to right-click and when to left-click, or how to adjust the line spacing on the infernal word processing program they now used. And so he mentored diligently, if grudgingly, accepting it as his due penance.

He had, however, used his new authority to ensure that the Watchers Council expense account reimbursed for liquor.

If only the bar would open.

"I miss Tucker," Andrew said suddenly.

"Your brother? The one who summoned the hellhounds to devour the Prom?" Giles was fairly certain, from hints Andrew had dropped occasionally, that Tucker had been a truly abysmal elder brother, not the sort of family member one _missed_.

"Well yeah, that was bad, granted, but.... He was my inspiration. He's the one who got me started on the demon summoning which, okay, I know, also bad, but if it weren't for the demon summoning, I wouldn't have wound up trying to rule Sunnydale, and then fleeing for my life to _Mehico_ from Dark Willow, and then kil--" He broke off, swallowing. "Okay, so, like, all of that was bad, I get that now, but if I hadn't been through all that stuff, I wouldn't be here now, training to be a Watcher, right hand man to the noble leader of the Watcher's Council...." He glanced over at Giles's incredulous face, guiltily. "Well, okay, gofer, but I'm learning. I'm the future of the Watchers' Council. And if it weren't for Tucker, none of it would have happened. I kind of wish he could be here to see it." He stepped back, judiciously assessing his handiwork. "I wonder if he got an invitation? The, um, asylum probably wouldn't give it to him, but... you never know."

"I do believe that the spell was designed to invite those who were present on Graduation Day itself," Giles said shortly. "Your brother was expelled, was he not? Prior to his committal?"

"Well yeah, but I think he got his GED. That might count." Andrew stepped to the side, gesturing at the decorated speakers. "So, Mr. Giles. What do you think?"

Giles glanced over, then closed his eyes again. "I thought you put the flamingoes away," he said, feeling weary to the bone.

"I did, but see? This one's wearing sunglasses," Andrew said earnestly. "He's incognito."

Giles turned back to the still-unattended bar with a sigh. _The future of the Watcher's Council is dark indeed._

***

Willow had butterflies.

It wasn't fair, she thought as she escorted Oz towards the pool area, having been shooed off by Buffy to "have some fun for once!" Here she was all fidgety and babbley and acting like she was twelve and had just met Jeff Goldblum, and there was Oz, cool as a Zen-Buddhist cucumber, and what's worse is she couldn't even tell what kind of butterflies they were. Were they residual we-used-to-be-a-thing butterflies? Fear-of-large-groups butterflies? Excited-to-share-stories butterflies? Terrified-to-share-stories butterflies? I-hope-there-aren't-any-frogs-near-the-pool-tonight butterflies?

...Not-so-residual... thing... butterflies?

Okay she was not going there. After all, gay now! She was just going to walk Oz to the pool, maybe find Xander or Giles so it wouldn't be just the two of them, maybe even slip away once Xander was carrying the conversational weight, go back to help Buffy out, because she was not so sure she wanted these butterflies, whatever variety they were. Even though she could feel her face smiling, probably looking super goofy too.

She'd just... really missed him.

"I really missed you."

She jumped. "Oh!" _Way to overreact_ , she chided herself. "Um, me-- me too. I, um, sorry I'm, you know, all jumpy. Puerto Rico, uh, has lots of frogs."

He nodded sagely. "They do tend to leap out at you."

"And you know me and my, um, frog fear."

"I do."

Willow rolled her eyes internally. Could she _be_ any more pathetic? It was no wonder he'd left, when this was the quality of conversation she offered. Except... he'd never really seemed to mind her conversation, or lack of it, even when things had gone bad. They'd been able to just sit, even, without it feeling uncomfortable.

She felt uncomfortable now.

When they finally reached the pool -- she had thought it was only a few hundred feet but it felt like the Bataan Death March! -- she scanned the scant crowd, fretting. Xander didn't seem to have come down yet, the coward, and Giles had vanished as well, and Percy was deep in conversation with the annoying girlfriend he'd brought -- he really dated the meanest of mean girls, what was up with that? -- and she was pretty sure Oz didn't know any of the other scattered guests, except.... No, she sure as heck wasn't going to bring him over to talk to Harmony, who was reclining in a lounge chair with a bored look on her face. She stumbled to a halt, not sure where to go if there was nobody to take Oz off her hands.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "Looks like nobody's here."

He shrugged. "You're here."

She bit her lip.

"But if you have to get back to work, I'll make do," he said agreeably. "I hear there might be some frogs around here I can hang out with. Maybe we can get a band together."

That was just so _Oz_ that she smiled, suddenly feeling like she was really Willow again too, old Willow, back when she used to make kinda-good life choices instead of slippery-slope terrible choices. "No fair, making a band your number-one groupie can't come see."

"You can still come see us," he reassured. "I'll make the frogs wear fake mustaches. You'll barely be able to tell they're amphibians."

"What about their flippers?"

"They can wear gloves and spats. We'll be a classy frog band."

"Oh, well in that case..." Willow caught herself just before she swayed in to press her cheek against his shoulder, the way she used to. _Yes, the way you used to before he became a big cheating cheater who cheats,_ she reminded herself, but somehow it didn't so much put a damper on her good mood. Maybe because, looking back, cheating was just such a petty, minor thing compared to the road she'd been on since then. She still remembered the pain, how it had felt like the worst thing she could possibly ever experience at the time, but she also remembered recovering, and forgiving, and healing, and... Tara.

Whom she'd betrayed a whole lot worse than had ever been done to her.

No, she wasn't going to throw any stones.

Oz was watching her, a tiny line between his eyebrows, and it occurred to her she'd been standing there for a long time without saying anything.

"Sorry, just... well, you know me. Brain gets all a-braining and I forget about, you know, the world."

"Yeah." He glanced away. "Pool looks nice. Cool."

"I, um, don't have a suit on."

He looked at her then, eyes alive with laughter. "Neither do I. But, you know. Feet."

She grinned back. "Feet are good." She'd forgotten that about him, how his face could look so calm, and yet be so alive underneath. She’d once known all his faces. It was nice that some of them hadn’t changed.

They found a pool edge where the tile was intact; Willow slipped off her flat sandals and hiked her full skirt up to tuck around her knees, sliding her feet into the water. Oz dropped down to sit beside her, matter-of-factly tugging off his worn black boots and bright-patterned socks -- he had always liked his feet to look funky, she recalled -- and rolling up the cuffs of his jeans. He finally got his own feet in, sitting casually a couple of feet away, body angled so he could look at her. She shifted around to match his angle. It was funny, if it weren't for the longer hair and the shirt he was wearing -- it looked like silk, embroidered and dyed, probably from some country she'd never heard of -- she'd think she really had travelled back in time. He didn't look any older.

She felt older than ever, looking at him.

"So!" Willow said, suddenly feeling awkward again.

"So," he replied.

"So, you've been traveling?" That seemed like a safe topic of conversation.

He nodded. "Asia mostly, though I did spend some time in Africa and some in South America. I think I've seen about seventy-one percent of the wonders of the world."

"Oooh. How were they?"

"I was appropriately flabbergasted. You?"

"Travel? Well, I did technically go to the Himalayas," she laughed. "But I didn't really get to enjoy them, I was astral projecting pretty much the whole time. It kind of wasn't fair."

"Not fair at all." He looked down at his feet, kicking them slightly. "So, the magic's been going good?"

Willow felt her smile freeze, remembering. But god, how could she tell him all of that, when he'd been off seeing flabbergastical wonders? "Yep," she said lightly. "Real... real good."

"Good." He kicked his feet again. "I was worried."

Willow kicked her own feet, splashing a little, pretending to be fascinated by the way the water looked in the party lighting. How could she answer that?

After a bit, Oz cast a glance up at the bulk of the hotel. "Is your girlfriend coming down later?"

"Oh." Willow rolled her eyes. "She's not.... We broke up. It was... Well, it just didn't work out."

They'd barely made it six months past Sunnydale, in fact. Just long enough for Kennedy to figure out that Willow was... well, not as useful as she'd thought. Their first step in recreating the Watchers Council had been to relocate to England, where Giles had taken the reins of the bureaucracy, and Buffy had taken charge of the field operations. Xander, still very much in shock from his losses, had been given the comfortably-busy job of tracking down newly-awakened slayers, which had kept him on the move and made good use of his affable approachability. Willow herself had gratefully sunk back into the coven that had helped her recover from her darkness, dropping out of the main slayer business except for when Buffy needed her. She still had so much to learn, and finally she -- like Buffy -- had someone to share the load.

Unfortunately, Kennedy'd had other ideas for her career trajectory; they'd fought bitterly over what Kennedy termed Willow's "lack of ambition" -- which, hello! It wasn't like Willow had been slacking all this time! Who did she think had done the slayer-awakening spell? -- and the fact that Willow wasn't using her influence with Buffy and Giles to help Kennedy gain the sweetest of slayer assignments, and finally Willow had come home to find Kennedy packing.

"I'm going places," she'd said scornfully. "You can spin your wheels if you want."

Willow had tried. She'd packed her own stuff and talked Buffy into sending them off to the South American HQ in São Paulo. And it had been... okay. But after yet another weekend in Rio, one that seemed to be all-party, no slay, Willow had confronted Kennedy.

"What are we doing here? I mean, you know I like a fun time, _go party_ , but I thought we'd be, um, doing some mission stuff too. Like at least seventy-five percent slaying. It seems like we're just party-party-party instead of... slay-slay-party-slay."

Kennedy had just looked at her blankly. "Of course we're partying. That's why we wanted this assignment in the first place."

Willow had given Kennedy her resolve face. "I gave up my training to come out here. I want to learn."

Kennedy had actually patted Willow on the head, like she was an infant. "That's so cute. But you're already, like, the most powerful witch ever. You don't need to train."

And, well, there'd been more, but in the end, Willow had taken a plane back to England, and Kennedy had stayed behind. Within a week, Willow had heard she'd hooked up with one of the twenty-something Watchers stationed down there. One with ambition, who also looked good in a bikini.

There'd been tears, of course, but then one day, not long after stepping off the plane at Heathrow, she'd woken up with the realization that... that had always been Kennedy. She hadn't gone after Willow in Sunnydale because she was funny, or sweet, or because of the way she liked to eat her Junior Mints. (Nibbling all the way around the edges first, then licking out the minty center, then finally the last bits of chocolate. The _only_ way.) She had gone after Willow because she was Buffy's best friend, and Buffy was in charge. It had always, _always_ been about power.

And Willow's days of chasing power for its own sake were over.

She'd been single since then, but that was... that was good. She'd never really gotten to finish grieving for Tara, and while she didn't really miss Kennedy any more, she did have some unresolved issues there as well, and it was good to have some breathing space to deal with both.

It was wonderful to breathe.

"That's too bad," Oz said mildly, returning her thoughts to the present. "I had kind of hoped to apologize for... Well, for attacking her. Not just the wolf part. I was kind of... I freaked out on her, even before I wolfed out. And, well, I never got to make any amends. I've kind of been working on that sort of thing lately."

He kept talking, but Willow couldn't hear him through the buzzing in her ears. _Tara,_ she thought. _He means Tara, not Kennedy. He doesn't know…._

And oh, suddenly she couldn't breathe again, realizing. He didn't know anything. Anything. Not about her life with Tara, not about her descent into darkness, not about her long, painful struggle to come back from being... well, evil. Way more evil than a werewolf. Maybe more evil than most demons, more evil than vampires, because she didn't have the excuse of _not being human_ to defend her inhumanity.

How could she tell him?

He was looking at her expectantly, she suddenly realized. Like he'd asked her a question.

"Sorry, I'm sorry," she babbled. "I was kind of spacing out."

"No worries," he said mildly. "Just asked if you were doing okay now."

She sighed. "Yeah," she said softly. "I'm doing fine."

***

When official start time for the evening's festivities rolled around, Buffy passed on responsibility for the sign-in table to one of her junior slayers -- one too young to drink, so she didn't feel too bad about missing the open bar -- and headed in to supervise the main event. It seemed to be running smoothly without her, though, and after a quick check-in with the bartender and the girls running security, she snagged a margarita and stepped out onto the patio. The sun had just barely set, and a cool breeze was coming off the beach that spread down below the pool area, artfully dotted with palm trees; she closed her eyes and inhaled the damp salt air.

"Hey, no sleeping on the job."

Buffy didn't open her eyes. "I've earned my beauty rest today." She felt the slight shifting of air as Xander came up beside her, taking his own deep breath.

"Well, at least you're getting free facials every day," he said. "Anya used to pay beaucoup bucks for the mud treatment."

"Was it worth it?"

He sighed. "Yeah. Her skin was.... It was worth it."

Buffy finally looked at him, sharing a wistful smile.

When they'd left Sunnydale, things between her and Xander had still been awkward, both of them reeling with private grief and bitterness and putting up a good front for the sake of the mission, but there had been neither time nor space for them to address it. They'd both just kept going, doing what they had to do, leaving their inner wounds to fester, somehow managing to never really speak to each other. It wasn't until they'd made it to England and were starting to pick up the pieces of the Watchers’ Council, rebuild them into something almost-but-not-entirely-unlike the Council of the past, that it had all come out.

It had been after yet another interminable meeting -- god, there had been so many meetings! -- convened in the private back room of a dodgy pub that Giles had frequented in his younger days. (After he'd stopped messing with demon-summoning and rejoined the ranks of the watchers, but before he'd gotten entirely respectable and stodgy and stopped going to dodgy pubs.) The topic of discussion this time had been the newly awakened slayers -- how to approach them, how to train them, all the stuff the Watchers Council used to do, except on a much bigger scale than ever imagined. The surviving watchers had pointed out that they had spent centuries successfully assigning watchers to potential slayers; Buffy had objected to their system largely on the principle that the status quo of the Council had sucked, particularly the way the watchers got paid and the slayers didn’t, but hadn't been able to come up with an alternate solution.

At one point when she was talking -- and being particularly calm and good-idea-ey, she'd thought -- she'd suddenly become aware that Xander was muttering something under his breath, glaring beadily with his one eye at his drink. Somehow it had made her awkward rage boil over, and when the meeting had finally adjourned -- no decisions made, of course, they'd have to have another meeting -- she'd confronted Xander on the sidewalk, after the rest of their party had headed off.

"What was that all about in there, Mister Peanut Gallery?"

His face had been sullen. "All what? I didn't say anything."

"No, you didn't. Not to me. You just had say-something face and had a conversation with your drink. If you have a problem with me, just say it."

"I don't have a _problem_ with you," Xander snapped. "It's just.... You're doing it wrong."

And that had unexpectedly brought tears to her eyes. Tears of remembered betrayal, empty houses, self-doubt and loneliness... and strong cool arms giving her strength. Reminding her of who she was. She'd lifted her chin, calling on that strength now.

“At least I’m doing something, instead of moping around.”

Xander threw his hands up in the air. “Well, excuse me for being unhappy about the love of my life getting sliced in half! Not to mention my field of vision!”

“Well, the love of _my_ life burned to a crisp! You don’t see me cozying up to Jack Daniels every night!”

“That’s because you’re too busy…” Xander stopped mid-rant. “Wait, what?”

And it had been like a floodgate opened, everything she’d been holding inside those dark days battling the First and in the bitter recovery pouring out. “I loved him! We were a huge mess, but we were a mess together, he was my mess, the stupid vampire, and I love him and I miss him and I saw him catch on fire, and…”

And then Xander was giving her one of those big bear hugs that he used to, before they had both screwed everything up for themselves. “It’s okay,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

And she’d finally cried.

She’d ended up back in the dodgy pub’s dodgier ladies’ room, cleaning her face, and after that, she’d ended up in a booth with a White Russian while Xander regaled her with some of the tales Anya had told him of her vengeance exploits, which had somehow been just the anodyne for her overflowing grief party.

After an account of a Russian Revolution vengeance gone hysterically awry, Buffy had wiped tears from her eyes -- tears from laughter, at this point -- and asked, “Why are you telling me these stories? I thought you hated being reminded of Anya’s vengeance days.”

He’d looked her in the eye -- the eyepatch lent him gravitas somehow -- and said gently, “Because I do know something of what it’s like to love the recently-evil.” He’d looked away then, swirling the ice around in his own drink. “I used to tell myself that the Anya I loved was human, that she’d left her demon days behind her, but I always kind of knew… human Anya wasn’t all that different from vengeance-demon Anya. She didn’t really… regret things.” He tossed back his drink. “It wasn’t until she was dead that I actually admitted to myself that I loved the whole package. Not just the parts that were nice. I loved the demony parts too. I kind of hated myself for it, for not being… better? More moral. Like, I always thought of myself as a good guy, but in the end I had to realize… I really wasn’t. I was just human. And not even a particularly good human.” Then he shrugged, and smiled. “Of course, I did save the world somewhere in there. The yellow crayon. So I like to think I ended up a net-positive.”

Buffy fidgeted a bit. “And me?”

He’d been silent for a long time, and then looked at her directly. “Why don’t you tell me about it? About him. Because I know what I used to think, but I don’t… I don’t think I ever knew enough to be fair. I didn’t want to be fair to him. Now… now I do. Want to. I mean, all that stuff I just said, about how I saw myself? I projected a lot of that onto you, too. Putting you on a pedestal like that… that wasn’t fair to you either.”

And so she’d told him, all of it -- not all of the details, she kept it PG for the sake of brevity, if nothing else -- but she told it as starkly and honestly as she knew how, and when she was done, she’d braced herself for his rejection.

“Huh,” he’d said instead. “I always wondered about those push-ups. Kind of glad I didn’t know the truth then, though.”

And that had made her tear up again. Stupid floodgates.

"So,” she’d finally said, after blowing her nose in a napkin. “What am I doing wrong?"

He’d smiled sheepishly. “Still mad?”

“I’m not mad,” Buffy said truthfully. “I want to hear it. I promise I’ll listen better than your pal Jack.”

With a sigh, he leaned forward, fingers steepled under his chin. “What you’re doing wrong is, you’re not doing things your way. You’re playing it safe, trying to please everybody.”

She blinked. “I thought that was…. Wasn’t that what everybody wanted me to do?”

“Yep. And it’s the one thing you shouldn’t be doing. Look, slayers have been around since before written history, and it’s always been the same. You, Buffy Summers, shook everything up, just by existing and being you. The last thing you need now is to start doing things _their_ way.” He lifted his glass ironically. “Working from the inside? Somehow never seems to turn out.”

“Funny how that works.”

"Look, when your first watcher what's-his-face came up to teeny-bopper-you and said you'd been chosen to fight vampires, what was your first reaction?"

"Um, that he was a crazy creeper? Possibly a serial killer?"

"And Giles?"

"Well, by then I knew he wasn't crazy, but... yeah, creeper." She shuddered. “He had those eyes -- you know, the ones he gets when he’s looking at his books.”

"So, what do you think all these girls are going to think when you send out an army of Giles-lights to tell them about the vampires and the demons and oh, by the way, can we take you away from your family for training?"

She sighed heavily. "Right."

"Buffy, we all know the reason you've been such a successful slayer is that you don't just think outside the box, you live on a whole different planet than the box. With its own ecosystem and everything. What do you have that all those other slayers throughout the centuries didn't?"

_The only reason you've lasted as long as you have is you've got ties to the world... your mum, your brat kid sister, the Scoobies...._

"Love," she said at last. "Family. Friends."

"So why are you negotiating how best to separate all these new girls from all of those things? I mean, if we're talking about _what-would-Buffy-do?_ That's not a Buffy thing to do."

She sighed. "But I don't know.... How else are we going to get these girls trained?"

"News flash, Buffy. There's more than one slayer. Do they all need to be trained? It seems we've got a surplus."

Buffy's mouth opened, then closed. "They all need something. They need to know what's happened to them, and what might be coming for them."

"They do need that. But most of them -- especially the young ones -- don't need to leave home to find that out."

"So, what would you suggest?"

"Let them stay with their parents. Give them information, offer them training, offer them the world, but let them choose."

Buffy nodded slowly. That was all she'd ever wanted for herself, to choose -- and in the end, she had chosen, time and again, to return to the fray. Even now, when the burden on her shoulders had been lightened and shared, she'd chosen responsibility. But she couldn't make that choice for everyone.

"As to first contact," Xander continued, "you're already talking about sending out crack recruiting teams. See above, re: creeper. The last thing you should be doing is sending out the Tweed Brigade. But it's a whole new era. Twenty-first century slayers need twenty-first century solutions." He settled back in his seat, smiling smugly. "Use the internet."

Buffy blinked. "Are watchers allowed to do that?"

"Giles may like his books more than is healthy, but a lot of these girls already have their own AOL accounts and MySpace pages. And there's new forums popping up all the time. That will help you get the word out to the States, Europe...."

"What about the places without internet? Or the ones we find, but they don't respond?"

He shrugged. "You can send someone out, but they need to be... I don't know. Not scary? Friendly, and relaxed, and...."

"Someone like you?"

Xander started. "What? No! Not me!"

Buffy smiled, feeling the rightness of it. "Yes, you. I can't think of anyone better. You know the risks, you know the score, and as Dawn's favorite babysitter, you know how to handle teenage girls. I can trust you with... with all my sisters."

"Look, I specifically said _not scary_ ," Xander huffed. "Check out this eyepatch here. Children flee at my approach. I can only imagine how terrified thirteen-year-old baby slayers are going to be when I show up on their doorstep."

"You, Xander, have never been a thirteen-year-old girl. Also, apparently you haven't been paying attention to this year's movies." She patted his hand. "Trust me, they're going to think you're the coolest."

Xander had hemmed and hawed and argued a bit more, but in the end, he'd agreed that he needed... something. Something new, something to keep him busy, something that wasn't sitting around grousing. He'd come back from his first trip to Tanzania tanned and bright with purpose, though he'd confessed to Buffy on one of their now-traditional pub nights that he was still grieving. It had been good for both of them -- both staying busy, and being able to talk to someone who... Well. Someone who understood what it was like, being in love with the recently-evil, currently-dead. Just what she'd needed.

Buffy elbowed him now. "You sticking around? I may need a drinking buddy later."

He shrugged, squinting towards the pool. "Is that Oz?"

"Yes it is, and don't butt in. You'll have plenty of time for your arcane man-talk after he and Willow have gotten caught up. She has dibs."

"Gotcha. Well, in that case, I think I will take my arcane man-talk over to visit Miguel. As the bartender at a facility currently overrun with under-drinking-age girls, he appreciates my manly patronage. Join me?"

"In a bit," Buffy promised. "Just need a little me-time first, okay?"

He clapped her on the shoulder and headed off.

Looking at Willow and Oz down by the pool, Buffy sighed. Weird how being at a social event -- being the _hostess_ of a social event, even -- just made her more aware of the niggling loneliness just beneath the surface. She and her friends were closer than ever before -- the stresses and betrayals of those last days in Sunnydale water under-the-bridge-and-all-the-way-to-the-ocean -- and she'd gained the companionship of the dozens of slayers who'd chosen to come to her for training, but it still just... wasn't the same as having a lover. A _partner._

Standing there by the pool, dressed up for the first time in what seemed like forever, Buffy could almost imagine…. What the hell. She closed her eyes and she _did_ imagine. If things had been different, if things had gone right….

Cool arms sliding around her waist, hard chest snuggling up against her shoulder blades. _Bare_ hard chest, because fuck it, this was her fantasy, and she wanted him shirtless. Lips tenderly trailing down her throat, sipping sweetly just _there_ , where he had always been able to make her shudder, even when she’d hated him, then drifting down her bare shoulder.

_Nice work, love,_ he’d growl into her ear, that husky, intimate murmur that made her quiver like a leaf. _Been fighting the good fight all day. You’re positively filthy._

_You know how much I love rolling in the dirt_ , she’d whisper back. _Let me show you how filthy I can be._ He’d laugh, his voice breaking, and he’d take her hips and pull her back against him, sending tingles rolling up her spine from his nearness….

Her eyes popped open. Tingles were rolling up her spine.

_Vampire._

She’d been working on this over the past year, practicing under the guise of training the baby slayers, and she’d developed enough sensitivity to know that it wasn’t Harmony setting off her slayer-sense - no, this was something old, no paltry fledge. She hadn’t felt this way since…. She shook off that thought and turned casually, scanning her surroundings, trying to pinpoint… _There!_ The storage room behind the bar, door ever-so-slightly ajar.

God, if it was Angel, come to lurk again, she was going to kill him. Why couldn’t he ever just say _hello_ , like a normal person? Was he still the vamp equivalent of a tween? But she’d have to leave him alive long enough to yell at him. She’d had time to think about it now and… she was pretty sure she didn’t forgive him for the amulet, for almost literally dropping a bomb on the one loyal friend she’d had for at least part of that last year. _The love of my life…._ Though actually she was kinda hoping it wasn’t Angel, because she could really stand to get right down to the violence, no complications, no questions asked. It felt like she’d been shoveling mud forever, without any slayable evil in sight, and she hadn’t had a boyfriend either since a few weeks before they’d come to Puerto Rico, and if she were completely honest _none_ of her boyfriends since Sunnydale had been precisely what she’d needed, not emotionally or physically, and…. Well. Suffice it to say she had some _stuff_ bottled up. Just a dash.

She would really enjoy killing something.

She took a moment to glance around the pool, nonchalant, debating how she could subtly approach the storage room without her unwelcome guest noticing her. Head to the bar for a refill? Casually wander over to whichever vaguely-familiar ‘99er that was over by the palm tree?

_Fuck it._ She was the goddamn head slayer, and subtlety had never been her strong suit. She set down her empty glass and stomped straight towards the door. She could see a vague shape on the other side. She hoped the vampire was watching her, and peeing its pants. Or whatever vampires did. She was pretty sure they didn’t pee, but maybe under extreme duress they’d sweat, or drool, or….

She shoved the door open, ready for mayhem.

The storage closet was illuminated by a single bare bulb, dangling from the ceiling; the vampire stood right under it, looking at her in hunger and resignation, and she stopped in her tracks, afraid to breathe.

“Spike?” she whispered, wondering if that margarita had had a little extra tequila added in. Like a whole bottle. _It must have been spiked,_ she thought inanely.

Her hallucination looked through his eyelashes at her, hands shoved in the pockets of his battered duster, and spoke.

“H’lo, Buffy.”

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sigyn, zabjade, and awesomest writing buddy the_moonmoth for betareading this chapter and making suggestions that infinitely improved this chapter, and to everyone on chatzy who read ahead and sent me words of encouragement.

Spike had composed a speech.

He’d written it on airline napkins and paper towels from the loo, curled jealously into the window seat of his sparsely-seated red-eye flight to San Juan, huddled over his tiny tray table as if the harried government worker across the way was going to spy on his speechifying, and then he’d scribbled revisions and rewritten the whole thing on bar napkins from the bedraggled airport bar at his destination as he waited for it to be night again so he could make his way to the hotel -- back in a corner booth, to avoid curious eyes -- and then he’d practiced it on his way to the hotel in one of the beat-up Jeeps that seemed to be the only ground transportation around, following the bored local with the “Sunnydale 5 Year Reunion!” sign.

He’d skulked through the shadows around the resort to avoid being seen, and then… there she was. Just standing there glowing by the pool, like she was waiting for the Immortal to slide up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist and kiss her on the neck and as the scene played out in his head Spike had crumpled up his speech and ducked through the nearest door, into what seemed to be storage for the poolside bar’s equipment and paper goods.

“I can’t do it,” he’d muttered angrily, pacing the center space among boxed napkins and bins of tiny straws. “She doesn’t want to see me. She’s got a new bloke to see to her, plenty o’ dosh, a whole army of slayers by her side. What would she need Spike for?”

The napkins were looking like they had an objection to that; he rounded on them. “Not a bloody word out of you!” He scanned the room, ducking to avoid the string of the bare light bulb. “Not from any of you lot.”

The bar supplies wisely stayed silent.

“Doesn’t need to see me,” he growled again, hand raking through his hair. “But I… Bloody buggering _fuck._ ” He stomped back over to the closed door, opening the door just the barest crack, inching over until he had a clear view of the spot where she’d been standing, quivering in anticipation of the sight. She’d have the wind in her hair, gleaming like watered silk in the light of the tiki torches around the pool….

Except she wasn’t there.

“Where’d she bloody go?” he muttered, opening the door a fraction wider. Not there, by the bar…. Not there, where Red was dangling her feet in the pool talking to some fellow what looked vaguely familiar…. Nor on the makeshift dance floor strung with fairy lights, nor…

 _Bloody hell!_ She was headed straight towards him!

He closed the door in a panic, looking around at his former confidantes, but the toothpicks were no help, and the boxed napkins still seemed irate, and so he braced his shoulders and tried vainly to uncrumple his speech and waited for the inevitable.

When the door opened wide and she was finally there, gaping at him with wide eyes, he let the crumpled napkins fall. Was a bloody awful speech anyhow.

“Spike?” she whispered, her voice gentler than he ever remembered it being.

“H’lo, Buffy,” he said, feeling his voice break on her name like it was an old scratchy LP. _One from the vault._

A flash of understanding crossed her face, and her expression hardened from shocked surprise into something like hatred, and even as his heart sank, he was laughing at himself. _This is why you shouldn’t have come, mate. Doesn’t need her cellar dweller now that she’s got all this._

“How dare you?” she hissed.

Spike had nowhere to go; he lifted his chin and waited. He owed her that much -- let her have her say. And god, she was even more beautiful when she was riled up, her eyes gleaming just like they used to when she’d….

“How dare you come here, wearing _his_ face?” Buffy went on, taking a step closer. “Wasn’t having a town dropped on your army enough for you?”

_Huh?_

“I knew you were low,” she spat out. “I knew you would stoop to just about anything, and I even knew you’d be back someday. Been planning on it in fact. But to show up _tonight_ , wearing _his face_ , the man I…. The man who died saving the world from you?” Her hands balled up into fists. “I don’t know what your plan is this time but you are _so_ going _down!_ ”

And she launched her fist straight at Spike’s nose.

Spike staggered back from the impact, seeing stars, and was suddenly adrift in a sea of nostalgia.

"Nobody punches a nose like my girl," he laughed in an aside to the box of coasters, then glanced up at Buffy, who was blinking in confusion, gingerly touching her knuckles.

"I hit you," she said at last, voice small.

"That you did," Spike muttered, poking his nose gingerly. Nostalgia didn’t last as long as the sting; it bloody hurt.

"You're not…. You're solid."

"Last I checked." Though there were times he’d wondered, afraid to even move for fear he would be walking through the furniture again, back to being a bloody ghost.

And then her hands were on his face, warm and rough, and in the midst of the miracle that was her touch, he shuddered at the roughness, the new calluses the past year had written into her skin. Her left hand seemed smoother in places, the shape slightly off, making him wonder if she bore marks from the burning, if she'd been left scarred as he had not.

"You're not the First," she said suddenly, voice sharp, and took his chin in her hand, eyes boring into his. "Robot?"

That startled a laugh out of him. "No."

"Manifest spirit," she challenged.

"Not hardly." He half-smiled, torn between bitter memory and pride that she'd kept that bit of knowledge.

"Golem?"

"Bloody unlikely."

"Doppelgänger? Incubus?"

"No, and hell no."

"Spirit guide?"

"Definitely not." He lifted an eyebrow. "We playing twenty questions, then? Bigger than a breadbox, love."

Something flared in Buffy's eyes -- probably annoyance, Spike thought -- and then she placed one trembling hand over his unbeating heart, and the other sank into the wayward curls of hair at the nape of his neck.

“How…? I saw you burn.” She swallowed, eyes fixing somewhere in the vicinity of his chin. “You burned.”

“I got better,” Spike said, trying for a light tone of voice but failing. He sighed. “Bloody amulet spit me out again. Not rightly sure how or why or....” He trailed off as her eyes suddenly lifted to his again, because words were inadequate in the face of that _look_.

"You're really Spike," she said in a hushed voice, and Spike would have sworn she was starting to sway into a kiss, when the storage room door opened and Andrew came in, carrying a huge speaker.

"Oh, hello, Spike," he said cheerily. "I wasn't expecting to see you here, _compadre_. How was your flight?"

Buffy's eyes narrowed and her hand tightened briefly in Spike's hair, sending an instinctive frisson of arousal shuddering through his body before she released him and rounded on Andrew.

"Why are you so _not_ surprised?" she demanded.

Andrew blinked. "Well, of course I'm surprised. I just said I wasn't expecting..."

"You're surprised he's here," Buffy growled. "You're not surprised he's _alive_."

"Didn't he tell you?" Andrew peered around Buffy, apparently unconcerned by his imminent doom. "Didn't you tell her?"

Buffy didn't turn around, her back rigid. "Nobody told me."

Andrew paled slightly, looking at Buffy's face again. "H-he made me promise not to," he stammered, awkwardly setting down the speaker. "He said he would take care of it." Spike had been on the sharp end of many a Buffy glare, but the horror on Andrew’s face hinted at something incandescently terrifying.

"Uh-huh." Buffy's voice was flat. The lack of inflection was somehow even more horrific. Like the dead calm at the eye of the storm.

"I thought he would, you know, _take care of it_." He swallowed nervously, eyes flickering to Spike again. "You know, a tender phone call, a joyous reunion, perhaps on a romantic, windswept moor...."

Buffy was silent; Spike watched her unreadable back in fascinated terror.

Andrew too-casually took a step backwards, his calves bumping against the shelves. "And then, well, you gave us that speech, Buffy. The big one, about how it was time to stop living in the past, and how you were moving on, and how you had earned some fun in your life, and then you dated Benvenuto, and then Errico, and then Giorgio, and then the Immortal, and..." Buffy made an irritated sound, and Andrew flushed, breaking off his litany. "Well. Yeah. So I thought, you know, things hadn't gone so well with Spike, and you'd broken it off with him. You were moving on. I wept a few bitter tears of brotherly regret over that, let me tell you, but then of course I accepted that you and Spike had touched and gone your separate ways, and so when Spike came to Italy with Angel--"

" _What?_ " Buffy hissed.

"I should go," Spike muttered, because even for him, terror had a limit, but then Buffy turned around, and the look on her face froze him in her tracks.

"Don't go anywhere," she said in a low, intense voice. "Stay." She heaved a deep, shuddering sigh, eyes closing briefly. “Please.” Then she jerked her head at Andrew. "You can go. We'll discuss this... _communications breakdown incident_ another time."

Andrew squeaked and scuttled out the door, leaving it ajar.

Buffy turned away from Spike, walked to the door, and shoved it the rest of the way closed, standing there with her hand on the rough wood. He was still frozen, unable to speak or reach out to her or look away, thinking of another door, his own hand against it, sensing her on the other side. Funny how being on the same side of the door made her seem farther away.

“I have a lot of questions,” she finally said, her fingers clenching into a fist against the wood. “I expect… I expect they’ll take some time to answer, so I’m not going to ask them all now. I have a reunion to run. But before I go back out there and play the happy hostess again, you’re going to answer the big one.” She turned and set her back to the door, folding her arms determinedly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She was quivering like a bowstring, her folded arms seeming like the only thing holding her together.

“Uh….” Spike glanced down at his crumpled speech again. Which napkin had that bit been on? He tried it from memory. “Well, uh, the way I see it, a man can’t go out in a bloody blaze of glory, saving the world, and then show up three months later, you know, uh, _I didn’t burn up like you thought, how are things?_ Hard to top an exit like that, and....”

“Bullshit!” Buffy’s hands flew up in the air, and she took a few angry steps before visibly reining herself in. She heaved a shaky breath. “How many times did you have to practice that line?”

 _Been practicing it almost a year_ , he managed not to say, seeing as he didn’t want to dust right this second. He could feel the cocktail straws glaring in disapproval. “Look, at first I was all ghosty, couldn’t pick up the bloody phone, all right? Incorporeal. Couldn’t even leave Angel’s bloody office building. Tried to get to you, first thing, but kept getting dragged back like a bloody yo-yo.”

She whirled away, hands clutching her elbows again, white-knuckled. “And... Angel couldn’t pick up a phone? ...Okay, he wouldn’t, but Wesley? Fred? _Lorne?_ ” She was almost shouting by the end.

He matched her tone, defensively. “Not my bloody fault Angel’s bloody posse follows his bloody lead!”

Buffy turned back to him, jaw set. “You said at first. You’re not _all ghosty_ now.”

“Angel….” God, he could feel the lameness of it even as he said it, deflating. “Angel needed me.”

Oh god, were those tears in her eyes? “More than I needed you?”

 _Didn't need me so much that you couldn't move on_ , he thought, steeling himself against the vulnerability in her voice. He could feel his own jaw setting mutinously. “You don’t need me.”

Her chin went up then, proud. “You don’t get to decide that for me!”

“Well, I bloody well get to decide for _me_!” he snapped, cringing inwardly at Buffy’s flinch.

She shook it off visibly. “You still should have told me. I was… I… God, I’m doing this all wrong.” She covered her face with her shaking hands.

Spike cast his discarded speech another desperate glance. This wasn’t how he’d wanted it to go down, either.

Buffy sighed, wrapping her arms around herself again. “Can we… can we pick this up again later? I think I need to… think.”

“Yeah, all right.” Spike agreed in relief. “I’ll just go....”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Buffy snapped out. “Until you have answered _all_ my questions, and I am _completely_ satisfied, you are not leaving my sight. You can just be my plus-one for the weekend.” She walked up to him then, standing right in front of him, looking down at his chest. “Please,” she added in a soft voice. “Please don’t go.” And then she sighed, breath gusting warm against his collarbone. “I’m glad you’re alive. Really mad you didn’t tell me, but…. God. Just don’t go, okay?”

Bugger.

He should have brought the bloody tux.

***

This was the lamest party ever.

Harmony should have expected it, of course, with the slayer and her too-school-for-cool freaks running things, and she almost hadn’t bothered to come, but then she'd thought about how Aphrodesia would simply _die_ at the sight of the new Louboutins Harmony had spent her Wolfram  & Hart severance pay on,  and she’d also given some thought to just what “severance” meant when you worked for Wolfram and Hart, even if there had been some shakeup in the upper-upper management, and that had made up her mind. Plus, she'd had that coupon for the free flight and all. Not that she intended to stick around to rebuild anything -- hello, _evil!_ \-- but she figured they'd have a hard time getting her to pay for it after the fact, and if they did give her any problems, well, she still had Angel's corporate credit card tucked away for an emergency.

She'd gotten good at landing on her feet. Her perfectly-pedicured, designer-stiletto-heeled feet.

When she'd come out to the pool area, there had been a minor ruckus, people looking at her like she was a celebrity or something, and she’d preened under the attention, sauntering leisurely-ly to one of the lounge chairs and settling down to accept the adoration that was her due.

Except nobody came to talk to her. Not even a cabana boy to take her drink order.

Finally, with a huff of annoyance she’d risen to her feet -- all elegant, of course, like the highly paid personal assistant she’d been until she betrayed her boss -- and strolled over to the bar, like that had been her plan all along. They wouldn’t have human blood, but if the bar was any good at all, they’d at least be able to make her a Bloody Mary with some otter. That was, like, standard now. At least in LA.

The bar was mostly vacant -- really, there was hardly anybody here at all, not anyone Harmony wanted to talk to anyhow -- just some guy in a Hawaiian shirt who looked like she should recognize him, except he was looking off to one side and he had an eyepatch on, like a pirate, and she was pretty sure she hadn’t met any pirates, because she would have remembered that and ooh, wouldn’t it be cool if he really _was_ a pirate? He could laugh wickedly, and he’d totally be okay with having an evil girlfriend he could give doubloons to because pirates were kind of a little bit evil too, and it was like a total coincidence too, him being a pirate here in the Caribbean, even if he wasn’t as good looking as Orlando Bloom or Johnny Depp. He was still kind of good looking, and she subtly gave her dress a yank downward in the front as she casually walked forward.

He really did look familiar, she thought as she approached, and then she heard his voice and stopped walking, almost losing balance in her heels, because no. No. That was just…. Ew.

It was Xander Harris.

Harmony tossed her plans of sailing off into the sunset right out the window, because she was so not sailing off with Xander Harris, of all people. And he wasn’t attractive either, not at all, it was just that eyepatches were kind of sexy and she’d gotten distracted by it. The rest of him was totally not at all attractive. Not at all.

Even if he was a pirate now.

***

“I bet you just wear that so girls think you’re sexy.”

Xander glanced up at the accusing voice, smiling his best not-starting-a-fight smile. “The shirt? It _is_ a limited edition.”

Harmony rolled her eyes, plopping carelessly onto a barstool a little ways down. “No, the eyepatch, lame-o.”

“Oh, that.” He still wasn’t used to his new look, even though he’d been seeing out of one eye for more than a year. “As a matter of fact, I wear it so men, women, and children don’t run screaming at the sight of my hideously mangled eye socket,” he said affably. “But seeing as you’re none of the above, I’m happy to provide a demonstration.”

“Ew, no way.” She waved a hand negligently in the direction of the bartender. “Bloody Mary, extra blood. Otter, if you have it.”

Miguel cast a frantic glance at Xander, who sighed. He’d known this was how his reunion was going to go. If the idea hadn’t made Buffy so happy, he’d... . well, okay, he wouldn’t have tried to stop it, because Buffy was kind of like a steamroller these days when she got an idea in her head, but perhaps he would have objected more strenuously to certain choices. At least deflecting Harmony was something he’d had lots of experience in, from kindergarten all the way to graduation. At the time, the injustice had filled him with burning rage, but looking back, it all seemed so… high school. Hard to get upset over petty insults and snubs when you’d had an evil priest’s thumb in your eyeball.

Xander saw a lot of things more clearly now.

“Hate to break it to you, Harmony, but this isn’t that kind of bar. The only vices this establishment supports are drinking, smoking, and sex-you-regret-in-the-morning. Except please note the prominently-posted no-smoking sign.”

“No blood? Ugh, then just make me a Mojito.” Harmony sighed dramatically, then pulled a pink pack of cigarettes and a Hello Kitty lighter out of her tiny purse. “God, this really is the worst party ever. I should have known the slayer didn’t know how to set up a classy celebration. Honestly, I have no idea what Spike ever saw in her.”

As Harmony prepared to light up, Xander reached out and nipped the pink cigarette out from between her lips, meeting her gasp of outrage with an even, mild smile.

“Sign says no smoking.” He tucked the cigarette neatly into his breast pocket.

She gaped at him for a moment before settling into a pout. "God, this is the worst reunion ever. No blood at the bar, no oiled up cabana boys, no smoking, and _you're_ here."

"Feeling's mutual," Xander shrugged, going back to his drink. "But, to be fair, this isn't the reunion. That's tomorrow. This is just a little casual get-together for early birds."

"And no blood. I totally filled out the special diet questionnaire too."

She looked so dejected that Xander took pity on her. "There'll be blood when they bring out the canapés. I heard Buffy arranging it."

"Really?" Harmony perked up for a moment, smiling, then apparently remembered she didn't like Xander and settled back into what he supposed she thought was scornful ennui but ended up looking like constipation. "Well, it'll be about time."

Xander turned back to Miguel, hoping Harmony would get the hint and leave, but Miguel had busied himself with washing glasses at the far end of the bar, sending Harmony furtive, terrified looks, so it looked like a rain check on their discussion of Olympic basketball -- Xander wasn’t much into sports, but apparently being from the US made one a basketball expert in the world at large, and Miguel was proud of his team’s performance -- and Harmony just stayed, poking at her lime wedge with her cocktail straw, and so finally Xander turned back to Harmony with a determined smile.

"So, how's death been treating you?"

She stuck out her lower lip, not looking at him. "Well, it _was_ going great. I had a really awesome personal assistant job, right at the top of the pecking order, too. I mean, my boss was kind of a jerk sometimes, totally a hostile work environment, you know? But he was way better than the K'sharlakk demon that ran the steno pool. He actually said thank you, sometimes." She rolled her eyes. "When he wasn't all moody and stuff."

Xander reached across the bar and snagged the bottle to pour himself a refill, catching Miguel's eye and tucking some extra tip cash back behind the bar. If he was going to converse with Harmony, he definitely needed Jack as his wingman. "Fascinating. So, you finally learned how to spell?"

"Very funny, Xander. That's what spell-check is for."

"So, what happened? You eat the boss-man's dog?"

Harmony gasped. "I wouldn't eat a puppy!" She took a drink, shrugging. "I just, you know, kind of slept with his enemy and betrayed him to the Senior Partners so they could try to achieve their yearly benchmark goal of bringing about hell on Earth. But he kind of walked into that one."

"Hard to believe you don't still have that job." Xander tossed another twenty down for Miguel and kept the bottle. “What is it with evil women and puppies, anyway?” he grumbled to himself.

She rolled her eyes. "For your information, he wrote me a glowing reference. And it was just a teeny tiny betrayal. Plus, technically he was already betraying the company, and so betraying him when he was being all betray-ey already was just doing my job."

"Again, I reiterate. Hard to believe."

"Anyhow, Angel was totally cool with--"

Xander spit his drink all over the counter. "Wait, Angel? You were _Angel's_ personal assistant? At the Law Offices of Evil and Eviler?" Glancing over at Miguel, he scooped up a handful of bar napkins and started to clean up his mess.

"No!" Harmony scoffed. "God, you are so gross. This was at Wolfram and Hart, not Evil and Eviler."

"That was what I-- Never mind." Xander heaved a deep breath. "So. Any... interesting news from LA?"

"Well, Britney Spears got married."

"No, I mean... about Angel."

Harmony was just opening her mouth to answer when a piercing whistle sounded. Xander peered over and saw Buffy standing next to... "Holy mother of what the hell? Is that Spike?" It sure looked like him, standing there looking weirdly uncomfortable, eyes flickering over the assemblage, hands shoved in his duster pockets.

"Great!" Harmony sniped. "That's just what I needed."

“This is the problem with vampires,” Xander muttered. “There’s never just _one._ ”

"Just a quick announcement for my staff," Buffy called out, voice strong, though Xander heard an edge of stress underneath it. "This is Spike. Yes, he's alive. Or... Well, you know what I mean. We're going to go make him a name tag, but in the meantime, no staking. That means you, Marissa. Got it? The only person who gets to stake Spike is me."

There was a general murmur of affirmatives from the slayers in the area, on or off duty, but Buffy didn't wait; she'd already taken Spike by the elbow and was guiding him in the direction of the sign-in table. Xander closed his eyes briefly, overwhelmed by a wash of emotions. Relief, regret, anger-- more than a little jealousy, even, that Spike would somehow have returned for Buffy when Anya... But eventually he settled on acceptance. Maybe even happy acceptance; he'd long since got over hating Spike, and god knew Buffy deserved something good to happen.

"Spike's alive," he said softly to himself.

"Well, duh," Harmony grumbled. "I could've told you _that_."

Xander turned slowly to look at her. "You knew Spike was alive."

"He's not alive," she said smugly. "He's undead."

"Yes, I am aware of how that all works," Xander said shortly. "How did you know?"

Harmony preened a little under his undivided attention. "Well. He was in LA, of course."

"Of course he was. Because there’s _never just one!_ " Xander turned to Miguel, who was still studiously avoiding them. "Miguel, could we have another Mojito for the lady?"

Harmony sniffed. "Buttering me up by buying me a drink isn't going to do you any good. I am _so_ not going to have sex with you. Even if you are wearing an eyepatch."

"The feeling is, again, mutual," Xander said determinedly, not pointing out that it was an open bar, and thus her drink was free. He was going to cover her tip, that was something. "But you were about to tell me all the news from LA. How is our good friend Angel doing?"

Harmony tossed her hair back, eyes alight with the glow of gossip, and started talking.

***

The leather felt different.

Buffy was trying very hard not to freak out over the fact that Spike was alive, he was here, he was alive, and she thought she was doing a pretty darn good job of it under the circumstances; she hadn't burst into tears when she made her announcement to the group, she hadn't punched him in the nose again, she hadn't fallen into his arms, and, okay, so maybe she was holding on to his elbow a little tightly, and almost certainly she was going to do some or all of the above things at some point tonight, but for the moment she was calm, she was fine, she was in charge.

It just bothered her that the leather felt different.

He was mumbling something under his breath, something about a tux and manners and napkins, and that bothered her too, the way he was talking to himself, but she wasn't sure she was ready to actually converse, and at least he seemed... present, not like he'd been in his crazy-high-school-basement days, and so she just held on to his elbow and kept walking.

She'd almost kissed him, there in the storage room, overwhelmed by his very existence, but Andrew had come in and spoiled the moment, and now... maybe she was glad? She didn't know. She was pretty sure kissing him would have been a bad idea, skipping all sorts of steps that needed to be covered when someone who had been burned to ash just showed up in front of you like it was just another Friday night, which was kind of a logical reason, she supposed, but she also felt kind of like if she touched him -- really touched him, not her businesslike grip on his arm or the tentative caresses that had confirmed his reality -- they might pick up where they had left off in the Hellmouth and catch on fire, except this time she didn't know if she'd be able to let go of his hand. Or if she'd want to let go of his hand. Or--

Well, it was probably a good thing she hadn't kissed him. She repeated that thought in the back of her head like a mantra as they walked.

Latha jumped to her feet at their approach, eyes narrowing, hand on her stake, and Buffy quickly held up her hand to stop her in her tracks. Latha had always been good at the tinglies, one reason she'd been tapped for their original mission to Puerto Rico, and had a bit of an itchy trigger finger.

"Yes, vampire. No staking. Latha, meet Spike."

The younger slayer folded her arms suspiciously. " _The_ Spike? Isn't he dead?"

"Don't you teach your slayers anything?" Spike snarked. "'Course I'm dead."

Latha rolled her eyes. "I mean, you're sure he's not a golem? Robot? Rakshasa?"

"Ooh. Didn't ask that one." Buffy glanced inquiringly at Spike, who just raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Nope, guess not. Anyhow, he's my... my plus one. We need a name tag."

"Plus two," Spike muttered under his breath. Buffy waited for him to elaborate -- she hoped he hadn't decided to go with the two-Spikes theory _á la_ Angel, she was basically done with that -- but he fell silent again, so she took the paper name tag Latha held out to her and bent to the table.

The markers had been gathered up into an untidy pile, which made Buffy want to cry, in a not-really-crying-about-the-markers way. She dug into the pile, scattering them, until she found the red.

She paused. "Do you have a last name?"

He laughed shortly. "No, I don't bloody have a last name."

"Just checking." She wrote "SPIKE" in bold capitals, tucking the card inside the plastic badge holder. "Make sure you keep this on you at all times, it's your get-out-of-slay-free card." Buffy turned to him and came up short, the pinback trembling in her hand.

"Right. Good to know." Spike just looked at her, not moving.

Finally, she stepped forward, brushing the lapel of his duster aside to reach his shirt. It was totally okay, she was calm, she was fine, she was in charge, and she could totally handle pinning a name tag to a T-shirt, right? Just open the pin, stick it through the fabric, fasten the pin. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

...Dammit, that had definitely been the wrong choice of idiom, because now she had the words _squeeze_ rolling around her head, and it was picking up all sorts of stray thoughts related to squeezing, squeezing and Spike, Spike and squeezing, and the cotton of his T-shirt was soft under her fingertips and he was hard underneath that, his jaw twitching in that way he had, and she wanted more than anything to run her hands all over him, feel that he was really here, but Latha was watching speculatively and she'd already told herself what a bad idea all of it was, and so she resisted, simply pinning the name badge in place.

Well, okay, so she indulged a little, trailing her fingertips a tiny bit across his chest after she released the pin. He was rigid and trembling, and when she stepped back his eyes were focused on her hands, and she was about to turn and walk away when he suddenly caught her left hand by the wrist.

"Scars," he muttered, voice rough.

"What?"

He blinked and released her, looking confused, as if he hadn't been in control of his own actions. "Your hand. It's all... is that from me?"

She held her hand up so he could see better. "It took a long time to heal, even with slayer healing," she said softly. "I was lucky, though. It didn't affect the muscles or tendons. And I’m right-handed. I can still..." She trailed off as he held up his own hand to match hers, just inches away. It was trembling, like he too was afraid they’d burst into flames if they touched.

His hand was unmarked.

"Scars come when you heal," he said shakily, looking at their hands. "Never got a chance to. Burned right up."

She swallowed, and closed the gap between their hands, pressing her palm to his. "But you're back. So you did heal. It's just.... all of you had to heal. So it's all of you. You're just one big scar."

For some reason Spike seemed to find that hysterical, his eyes crinkling with mirth, and he laughed. "One big scar," he gasped out. "Too bloody right."

She was about to wind her fingers into his, chance-of-fire be damned, when he pulled away, eyes skittering off over Buffy's shoulder, laughter dying off abruptly; she turned to see Latha just looking away, like she’d been caught spying, and she felt her face growing hot because she had kind of forgotten they’d had an audience; she caught up Spike’s hand -- no sense still being shy, she’d already accepted the risk of conflagration -- and tugged him back towards the pool area, stopping about halfway there, out of sight of both the registration table and the party.

He was looking at their hands again, frowning slightly, and she forgot what she had wanted to say. Hadn’t she wanted to say something? Oh.

“Your duster. It… it doesn’t feel the same.”

He looked up at her again, and he was back from wherever the sight of her hand had taken him. “It’s not the same. It’s new, got it in Italy.”

“With Angel.” She was not going to start a fight, she was determined not to, but fury rushed through her anyhow, and she dropped his hand.

“One I was wearing got a bit singed. And that one… that wasn’t the same one either.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. “Can we can the cryptic? Just tell me.”

Spike glared at her, shoving his hands in his pockets. “All right then. Told you the amulet spit me out all ghosty. Later on some box of flash-mojo made me corporeal again, but it wasn’t like it was the same me. When I was a ghost, almost got faded into hell or some such, and everything, duster, clothes, what-have-you, it was all there by my will alone. Once I got turned back into a real boy, figured out it wasn’t physically the same me. Couldn’t possibly be me. The real me, my real body, it burned to ash. What came back was the idea of me. Word made flesh, maybe, but not out of the same bits. Dunno if all of me came back the same, even. Can’t exactly check in a mirror.”

“You look…” Buffy took a deep breath. “You look the same.”

“All of me?”

Buffy nodded. “Right down to the scar.” She gestured at her own eyebrow.

“Well, of course that one came back. That’s part of my image of me. That’s what makes me Spike. But the rest of them?”

Buffy had a sudden memory, kissing up his back, running her tongue along faint scar lines from who-knew-what mayhem or torture -- but she couldn’t exactly ask him to strip, let her check his back, let her run her hands up his sides and wrap them around him to hug him the way she’d never-- No. No, she really, really couldn’t.

God, she had to get them out of this hallway.

“I, um, have to get back,” she said hastily. “I’m in charge of the party.” She couldn’t quite look at his face any more.

He nodded slowly. “Right.”

“Plus people are going to want to see you. Willow’s here, and Xander. Vi too. Andrew. Um, some of the girls didn’t make it, but you probably saw--”

“Yeah.”

“Anya….” She sighed, ignoring the tiny stab of pointless jealousy. “Anya didn’t make it either.”

“Oh.”

“Giles is here, though, and, um, Oz is back, I guess you never really knew him, but--”

“Know of him.”

“And, well, Harmony’s here.”

There was a long pause. “Is she, now?”

“I know, makes it feel like a real high school reunion, huh? Ghosts of exes past.” Buffy paused. “Did you ever have something like that? School reunions…?”

“Not so much,” he said distractedly.

“Right. Of course you didn’t.” She heaved a deep breath. “Are you ready?”

He looked at her for a long moment, then shrugged. That was almost a yes.

She took his hand again. “Come on.”

He followed her, though she could feel his reluctance, and he hung back a little when they got back out to the pool and were mobbed by a group of mostly slayers; Buffy could see Xander over at the bar, listening intently to Harmony for some reason, and Willow still seemed absorbed by Oz, but Vi sidled over with a cautious but friendly greeting – she’d grown in confidence since Spike had helped train her -- and several of the newer slayers came over just to get a look at the Champion of Sunnydale, and then Giles approached, looking his stuffiest, and gave Spike a firm handshake -- which was practically a hug from Giles -- murmuring something Buffy couldn’t hear, and then Buffy saw Xander’s face and felt kind of guilty, but he didn’t look mad or jealous, just… pale. Not vampire-pale, all porcelain, but sick-pale, his lips almost green, and she stepped to the side to meet him, vaguely noting that Harmony had followed him over and was pointedly ignoring Spike.

"Buffy,” Xander said in a shaken voice. “There's some stuff you need to--"

He was interrupted by a vicious snarl, and Buffy whirled to see a huge, spiny, doglike beast leap over the shrubbery, slavering and snapping as the members of the Class of 1999 -- survivors all -- scattered like autumn leaves on the wind.

“I knew it,” Buffy muttered, stepping forward. “I knew this reunion was definitely going to be a Buffy party. That’s what I get for planning it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Puerto Rico is still in dire need. Please consider making a contribution for the holidays to one or more of the funds aiding in PR's reconstruction. Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s notes: When I started writing this, Hurricanes Irma and Maria weren’t even tropical depressions. Now, of course, many islands in the Caribbean are trying to recover yet again, and they don’t have a platoon of slayers to help. SF/F author Tobias Buckell has compiled a list of charities and organizations that you can donate to in aid of the reconstruction of these territories here:
> 
> http://www.tobiasbuckell.com/devestation-in-the-us-and-british-virgin-islands-after-hurricane-irma-and-how-to-help/
> 
> Andrea Gonzalez-Ramirez has compiled some links to assist here as well:
> 
> http://www.refinery29.com/2017/09/173036/how-to-help-hurricane-maria-victims?utm_source=twitter&utm_medium=twitter_share
> 
> As an added bonus, my friends Michael and Lynne are offering a free eBook of an issue of their Hugo-award-winning Uncanny Magazine to anyone who donates to any of these charities; email them at uncanny@uncannymagazine.com with info about your donation, and tell them Bridget sent you.


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